Maybe
by HappierThanMost
Summary: The Curtis brothers struggle through morning and Sodapop hangs on to hopeful maybes.


_Back from a little break, I decided to write what I enjoy writing most of all-the extremely mundane details of everyday life in the Curtis house. This is a snapshot of an ordinary morning, in the winter, not too long after the passing of their parents. POV will be passed from brother to brother throughout and will start with Soda..._

 **MAYBE**

Maybe one day I'll wake up and all this will have been a dream. Maybe I'll wake up to Dad whistling and calling "Rise and shine cowboys," instead of Darry's firm shove and the promised threat of his work boot up my ass. Maybe I'll wake up to a time when my brothers are just that..my brothers.

I stumble into an already occupied bathroom to take a leak. Darry stands next to me at the sink shaving, wearing only jeans and his glasses that you'd never even know he wears, unless you were around him in the early morning and late at night. The black frames make him look like the brainiac he really is. He's obviously running late. His hair is still a wet, greaseless mess and he nicks himself trying to speed through with a dull razor. He hisses and looks at the trickle of blood where his ear and jawbone meet. "We got a bleeder," I say like I'm some sports announcer and he nods, knowing it's one of those minuscule but annoying cuts that won't stop gushing.

"For Christ's sake Soda, ain't you done yet?" Pony utters from the doorway that seems to be holding him up, his eyes half open and his hair swirled in all directions. "Other people gotta piss ya know." I'm still going strong and even Darry looks over and shakes his head at me.

I just shrug and tell them, "What can I say? I'm well hydrated." Darry's now bent over the sink splashing his face as I finish up and hold my hands under the faucet.

"Do you mind?" he asks me, eyes squinting through the dripping water, glasses safely perched on top of his head. He's all annoyed cause I'm interrupting his rinsing, but I'm already done washing my hands anyway.

I dry off on the hanging towel before Darry can grab for it blindly, as Pony sleepwalks over and takes his position in front of the toilet, sighing loudly in relief that he actually made it. And while Darry's finally taming that hair, I stand up close to the mirror, examining the zit I noticed earlier on my chin. "Damnit, this better be gone by Friday."

Darry's finally had enough. "Damnit Soda, you'd better be gone by two seconds ago," he threatens, slapping his comb against the sink. "Christ almighty this is a one man bathroom. Now both of y'all get gone and let me finish. In peace." The glasses and the sliver of toilet paper he has stuck to the cut on his face make him seem much less intimidating.

He stares at us behind him through the mirror as we both slowly file out. "I'm going, I'm going," I say with my hands held up while Pony mutters under his breath, "We know when we ain't wanted."

The kitchen feels as bland as this cereal, and in the middle of winter the sun hasn't even bothered to show its face yet. Pony and I are too tired for conversation, but I watch him dunk his Cheerios further down into the milk with his spoon, preferring them soggier than they already are. Suddenly he looks up and says, "Do you smell somethin'?"

Just when I can identify that something's burning, Darry's already rushing in for a dish towel, yelling at us for not taking the cinnamon toast out of the oven. "You'd think one of you could get off your lazy ass and check on breakfast," he chides, flinging the cookie sheet on the stove. The toast still looks salvageable. Tasty in fact. "Y'all two would sit in the middle of a house on fire if it meant you didn't have to get up," he keeps on going, and Pony and I just look at each other while our brother gets swept up by his temper. He didn't used to be like this.

Darry starts cutting off the burned edges and tosses us each a couple of pieces on a plate. I see Ponyboy's looking at it in disgust and I'm hoping he doesn't speak his thoughts aloud. But I know he's going to, because he's Pony. "I don't like cinnamon," he states matter of factly, and I look to Darry to see how he'll react. Darry's at the counter, his back turned to us so I can't see his face, but by the way he's standing I can tell he's probably counting to ten.

I try and save the morning. "I know how to make French toast," I offer, remembering Mom always let me dip the bread in the egg mixture when she made it, but Pony's in one of his moods, where nothing seems right to him.

"I don't like French toast; I like my toast American," he says, being defiant and difficult. Being thirteen.

"Whatcha got against France?" I argue in jest, but Darry's already headed over with a butter knife. He grabs up Pony's toast and violently drags the knife across the blackened bread a few times, scraping off the cinnamon. He throws it back on his plate, despite it getting mangled in the process. Then he goes to pour his coffee, and both Pony and I get the message. We know not to say another word about it.

Pony stares at the dead toast, Darry's latest victim, then looks up at me with eyebrows raised. I'm not sure what he expects me to do about it, since Darry's taken this _toast or_ _die_ stance for some reason. Pony hasn't given up though, and he walks to the pantry for his one constant. Peanut butter.

* * *

I'm smearing the peanut butter, but I'm getting more on my fingers than I am on the crumbling pieces that Darry broke apart. It'll have to do though, and it ends up tasting pretty good, but I keep that to myself. I don't want to give Darry the satisfaction after he mauled my breakfast like some wild animal.

I notice the sun has finally decided to come up but already forfeits against her cloudy captors, and our yellow kitchen bulb puts up the only real fight against this dismal morning.

"Maybe it'll snow," Soda pipes up, looking out at the feathered gray sky. "Maybe we'll get out early or somethin'." And although that idea seems nice to him, an afternoon of nothing to do seems worse to me than sitting in school. At least there, things seem halfway normal. I know Soda feels differently though, so I don't say nothing.

Darry joins us at the table, seeming much more civil with his coffee in his hand. And he guzzles it like it's a coke or a beer or something. Never sips it. I wonder how his throat isn't scalded every day. Knowing him, it probably is and he likes it that way. I roll my eyes and drink the milk out of my bowl.

"I can't afford snow," Darry says to dampen Soda's dream. "I need the work if y'all want food on this table."

Soda's face falls and he says, "That's true. I won't wish for snow, then."

"Just make sure the food on this table ain't got cinnamon in it Darry," I say to spite him. Who does he think he is shitting all over Soda's wish?

Darry's too busy going over his to do list, but I can see Soda appreciates my one last cinnamon toast jab of the morning. He smiles real big even while his eyes are telling me to cool it.

"Okay," Darry says, about to give us today's schedule. "Pony, I've got the parent-teacher conference with Mrs. Jenkins this afternoon at three. You can just wait in the gym and I'll take you home after." My pulse quickens and my stomach flips a little when I think about this meeting. It makes me nervous cause I have no idea what it's about.

"Pony, you sure you don't know why she's calling me in? You haven't done something wrong have you? You turned in all your homework right?" Apparently Darry's not liking this impromptu visit either. He leans forward on his elbows and eyes me good, and he's reminding me of Dad. "Better to tell me now Pony, cause I don't like surprises. I need to know what I'm walking into." I don't like surprises either, but I sure don't appreciate his lack of faith in me. He's popping his knuckles when he says, "Good thing she was my English teacher too. Always liked me so we have that in our favor."

"Darry, I swear I ain't done nothing wrong," but my brain is on overtime trying to remember if that's the whole truth. Surely nobody saw when I slipped a couple of art pencils home. I felt too guilty to use them and secretly put them back in the supply closet the next day. "I don't know, she just said she wants to meet with you and Ms. Shaw. The guidance counselor."

"If it's with the guidance counselor, they probably just want to make sure he's okay," Soda surmises as he stands to head for the shower, lightly slapping Darry's shoulder on the way out. "Ya know, like with his grief and everything. They made me meet with my counselor the other day, asked me all kinds of crazy questions," he calls out from down the hall and disappears behind the bathroom door. " He's probably right, but it still doesn't lessen my nerves. The thought of people talking about me when I'm not in the room feels weird on many levels.

Darry's nodding listening to Soda, looking as if he suddenly feels more confident about the whole thing. "That's true. I didn't know the counselor was coming. That makes sense," he tells himself as his fingers drum against the table, and then to me he points and says, "You need to take the fastest shower known to man or we're gonna be late." Of course I'm the one who's forced to take the one minute shower, but I guess it works out since I'm the one who's always left without hot water. That's what being the youngest gets you these days.

I sigh when I get up to wash my bowl and plate, and plan on asking Soda later what all he and his counselor went over. Maybe that might give me a clue what Ms. Shaw will talk to Darry about. I can only pray they won't show Darry the poem I turned in last week. And as I stare out at the naked trees, their dark silhouettes eerily reaching for something the sky can't give them, I know already why they're meeting. It's gotta be my poem.

"Shower's free," Darry's voice breaks through my weighted thoughts, and I fling the water from my hands into the sink, and turn to leave the kitchen, but not before I say, "Thanks for the toast," in the flattest tone possible.

* * *

I'm letting Pony's passive aggressive remarks slide. I was wrong to get so heated and I feel bad about the way I acted. But that's par for the course these days. Every night I lie in bed and regret half the things I did and all the words I yelled throughout the course of any given day. It's getting harder to control my anger, which only means I'm getting closer to losing my shit. My heaping plate piled high with bills and worries and responsibilities is my excuse for my short fuse. That and a workload that's literally breaking my back. I don't know how Dad did it.

By Pony's loud shriek I know the hot water has finally run cold. I breathe a short laugh when I hear him racing to get clean under the icy spray, the whole time sounding like he's being murdered in there. "Sorry Pone," Soda loudly apologizes for using the last of the warmth, but Pony can't hear him over his dramatic cries.

I pull out my sweatshirt from the clean clothes basket. It'll be enough against the stinging wind on the rooftops and I don't want a bulky coat. When I slip it on, I look like the college boy I used to be, but my work boots tell another story, and I tie them up, whipping the strings into place, pulling at them with a much harsher tug this morning.

"C'mon," I call for the second time as I eye the clock. I can hear them talking in low voices, Soda saying things like "nothing to worry about," and "no, they can't send you away for that".

They thunder down the hall, Pony with his backpack and books, Soda empty handed, and I make a mental note to ask him about his homework tonight, as the three of us march out the door and into the world where it all starts up again. Every day the same, as painful as the one before.

* * *

I sit between Darry and Pony in the silence of the truck, and we never talk until we finally pass it. The intersection where it happened. Our collective breath is held and eyes stare straight ahead when the very spot blurs by our windows. Maybe one day we'll hardly notice. Maybe one day Darry won't grip the wheel so tight and Pony won't sneak those peeks I see him make out of the corner of his eye, the ones he can't help.

After a month though, I've noticed we start talking again a little sooner each time after we see it, our bodies relax a little easier. Our recovery time is improving. That's something.

The snow never comes and school's killing me these days, Darry's in the worst of moods and Pony's worried sick over this meeting. But I lean forward and turn up the radio, and let the Kinks' guitar riff slice the roof off this cab, and _Girl..you really got me going..you got me so I don't know what I'm doing_ can even get Darry going. The song starts building and Pony joins me in _Oh yeah..you really got me now, you got me so I can't sleep at night_ as he's drumming on the dash, and finally we're reminded that maybe there's life outside this heartbreak.

We're close to the schools now and the traffic's heavy, teenagers from all walks of life, prowling the sidewalks, driving if they're lucky. And maybe I'm actually still one of them. The guitars break into chaos and Pony rolls down the window and turns it up even louder, and I think I just saw Darry Curtis smile.

Maybe we'll be okay.

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton, You Really Got Me by the Kinks

 _Thank you for reading :)_


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